Festival week was supposed to bring joy. The café smelled of cinnamon and butter, fresh pastries pulled from the oven, and coffee roasted darker than midnight. Colorful flyers were plastered on the windows, each promising games, raffles, and discounts for loyal customers.

Celine stood behind the counter, apron dusted with flour, watching the morning crowd trickle in. The sound of chatter swelled and ebbed like a tide, mixing with the hiss of the espresso machine. It should have felt ...